


my heart, my head, my bed

by broken_boiz_in_love



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (kinda?), Alastair Carstairs Deserves Nice Things, Alastair Carstairs is a gay disaster, Alastair POV, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sexy Times, Songfic, thomas pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29451474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broken_boiz_in_love/pseuds/broken_boiz_in_love
Summary: He gripped Thomas's hand and pulled him closer.This is your chance, Alastair thought. Let go. Push me away. Tell me I'm revolting.But Thomas did none of those things. Instead, he leaned in and kissed Alastair.
Relationships: Alastair Carstairs/Thomas Lightwood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 92





	my heart, my head, my bed

****_you were in my heart_ ** ** ********

****_you were in my head_ ** ** ********

****_now you’re waking up here in my bed_ ** **

****_\- "unbelievable," why don’t we_ ** **

* * *

**my heart.**

It was a common joke among Shadowhunters. _Never a dull moment,_ they would say. Demons would attack. _Never a dull moment,_ they would laugh, wiping stinging ichor out of their eyes. Someone would get into a nasty bar fight with a Downworlder at the Hell Ruelle. _Never a dull moment,_ they would scold, shaking their heads. Someone was killed. _Never a dull moment,_ they would whisper, as they watched the pyre burn. 

They were all quite wrong indeed, Alastair thought. Patrol duty was the very definition of dull. Despite this though, Alastair still volunteered every chance he got. His mother and Cordelia thought it was because he was trying to establish himself as part of the London Enclave. That was partly true. But recently his intentions had shifted from making friends to avoiding enemies. 

_Enemies._ Alastair rolled his eyes at his own dramatics. He had no real enemies. There were just people he’d hurt. People who wouldn’t forgive him. That was justified, he admitted. Alastair’d said terrible things to Matthew Fairchild in his youth; he did not deserve forgiveness. It wasn’t even Fairchild Alastair was avoiding. It was the other one. The one who was loyal to Matthew. The one whose presence made Alastair’s chest tighten and his breath short. 

“Carstairs,’’ Piers hissed. 

Alastair glanced towards Piers and Thoby, the other two Shadowhunters he was patrolling with. “Yes?” He said, his tone clipped. 

“Someone’s coming.’’ 

Alastair stilled. The night was cold, and there was a thin layer of frost forming on the cobblestones, a precursor to the rapidly approaching winter months. Though the night was young, the street lamps were already running low on oil. Alastair’s right hand drifted to the blade at his hip. A single figure stepped into the dim, flickering light. Alastair recognized him instantly by his impressive height and broad shoulders. Heart thudding, he motioned to Piers and Thoby. “Stand down,’’ he murmured. “He’s one of us.’’

Piers lowered the Seraph blade he had been prepared to ignite. “Lightwood?”

Thomas Lightwood dipped his head. “Hello, Piers’’

“What’re you doing out here at this hour, mate?” Thoby asked. 

Thomas shrugged. “Just walking.’’

Alastair tried to steady his breathing. _Calm down, fool,_ he chided himself. _He hasn’t even noticed you yet._ Alastair sent a silent prayer to the Angel that it remained that way. 

“Evening, Carstairs.’’ 

_Dammit._

Alastair forced a curt nod. “Lightwood. 

“I haven’t see you around much lately.’’ Thomas’s tone was light, but his words carried a weight far greater than any Alastair could bear. 

“I’ve been busy,’’ Alastair managed to reply. 

“Of course.’’ 

When had things gotten so tense between the two of them? Alastair wondered. _When Fairchild told him what you’ve done, bastard._

Alastair tried to shake any feelings he had towards Lightwood. But here was Thomas, standing in the quiet streets of London, his beautiful features cast in the soft glow of a dying light, and Alastair couldn’t seem to look away. Every instinct told him to stop staring. But he was compelled by a deeper source. And Lightwood was staring too. Staring at Alastair. 

“Right, well, see you around, Lightwood,’’ said Thoby. “Have to continue with the patrol, you know.’’ He laughed sarcastically. “Dreadfully dull work, dreadfully dull.’’

Thomas finally broke Alastair’s gaze. He smiled kindly at Thoby, making Alastair feel a prickle of jealously in spite of himself. “At least it pays well.’’

Thoby and Piers both chuckled. Shadowhunters were given a monthly salary, of course, but patrols were more of a duty than anything, so none of the young men would be getting any sort of reward for their efforts. 

The others had started walking again, so Alastair had no choice but to follow. Thomas remained under the streetlamp, watching them disappear into the darkness of the night. Alastair felt his eyes boring into him, even as he walked away. He longed to turn around, to get _just one_ more glance of Lightwood’s elegant features, but he resisted. His chest continued to throb. 

Alastair kept walking.

* * *

**my head.**

It was true that Thomas was walking the quiet streets of London just for the hell of it. The chilly night air didn’t bother him and he’d thought it would be good to get out and clear his head. _Clear his head._ That was the other reason Thomas was out for a nighttime stroll. He had not wanted to admit it to Alastair Carstairs. Alastair, who Thomas could not stop thinking about no matter how hard he tried. Of course he hadn’t been able to walk the expansive streets of London without running into the one person he was avoiding. Fate was cruel that way. 

_Am I avoiding Alastair?_ For some reason, Thomas didn’t like the thought. _Not avoiding,_ he amended. _Keeping my polite distance._ Or at least that was what he was trying to do.

Running into Alastair on one of his nighttime strolls was not something Thomas could ever have anticipated. Now that it had happened, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about Alastair. Every moment they’d ever shared was turning over in Thomas's head. He wondered not for the first time whether or not he should have allowed their childhood quarrels to bleed into adulthood. What Alastair had done, what he had said about Thomas’ father and Matthew’s mother, was horrible. Thomas knew that would never change. He also knew that that had been years ago, and Alastair was _sorry._ It was hard for Thomas to believe someone who’d spread such cruel lies could be so remorseful. But this didn’t make Thomas doubt Alastair’s sincerity. The only answer to the questions swirling around in Thomas’s head was that Alastair had truly changed. Could Thomas let him in again though? 

Distracted by his many impeding thoughts, Thomas didn’t realize where he was going. He just suddenly found himself standing outside the Carstairs home. He shivered slightly as he gazed up at the building. Mrs Carstairs and Cordelia would probably be asleep at this late hour. Thomas wondered if either of them ever waited up for Alastair. He doubted it. No one was waiting for him to return at the London Institute, where he was currently staying. It was because no one knew he’d gone out; if Aunt Tessa had known he was gone, Thomas doubted she would sleep until he was safely returned. 

However, as circumstances were, no one was waiting for Thomas. He could stay out as long as he wanted to. He didn’t have to go back tonight at all; no one would notice him missing as long as he didn’t miss breakfast the next morning. So Thomas stayed. Not even sure why he was doing it, he stayed. Maybe, he thought as he shivered on the steps of the Carstairs’, it was so someone would be waiting for Alastair.

* * *

**my bed.**

“G’night, Carstairs.” Thoby lifted a hand in farewell as Alastair departed. He nodded in response and jammed his freezing hands into his pockets. He took off down the street, eager for the warmth of his home. 

A second patrol had come to relieve them at the stroke of midnight. Although Alastair mostly enjoyed patrol, he was grateful to be returning to the warmth of his home. Luckily, the patrols switched out only blocks from Alastair’s street so the chilly walk was short. 

As he approached his house, he began fishing around with numb hands in his coat pocket for the key. Locating it, he began to pull the key out, but stopped in his tracks. There was someone standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Alastair’s front door. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome someone. 

Alastair’s mouth went dry. He had managed not thinking about running into Lightwood on patrol, a feat that took a great amount of effort. Now here was Thomas Lightwood, apparently waiting for Alastair. Alastair’s eyes narrowed. _What was he playing at?_ He approached Lightwood warily. 

Thomas looked up. He opened his mouth to say something, but Alastair brushed past him. He jogged up the stairs on stiff legs and fumbled with the key. Alastair wasn’t sure if he struggled to open the door because his fingers were numb or because his hands were shaking badly. The door clicked open. Alastair paused before entering. He turned around. 

Lightwood had not moved.

“Well,’’ said Alastair gruffly. “What do you want?”

Thomas opened his mouth again and closed it. He seemed to be searching desperately for words that’d escaped him at the sight of Alastair. 

“I’m letting cold air in,’’ Alastair snapped impatiently. “So either go away or come inside.’’ 

Thomas blinked. Then, keeping his head down, he followed Alastair inside.

Alastair felt Thomas’s presence like impending doom as he locked the door behind them and made his way into the parlor. Alastair took off his coat and gloves, and began warming himself in front of the fire Risa had mercifully left going. When he could no longer bear it, Alastair faced Thomas. He was standing a little ways off, still wearing his coat. Alastair pursed his lips. It wasn’t what he had been planning to do, but he gestured to Thomas to come get warm. Appearing very self-conscious indeed, Thomas took of his coat and joined Alastair by the fire. 

They stood in silence for a few agonizing minutes. Alastair kept searching for words, for something, _anything,_ to say, but the sentences kept stringing themselves together and breaking apart. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,’’ Thomas finally murmured. 

Alastair didn’t look at him. “He speaks.’’

Thomas shifted agitatedly beside Alastair. “Look, Ala— Carstairs. I-I’m sorry.’’

Alastair still wouldn’t look at him, but his heart had begun to beat very fast. “For what?” He managed. 

“For not— Well, I mean, I should have forgiven you when you apologized.’’

This startled Alastair enough that he jerked his head up to look at Thomas without thinking. _Damn it,_ he cursed himself, but Lightwood didn’t seem to have noticed. 

Thomas continued. “You said you were sorry. And-and, well, I know that couldn’t have been easy. I know this whole situation can’t have been easy for you. Coming to London, I mean.’’ 

Now Alastair couldn’t take his eyes off Thomas. Coming to London had _not_ been easy for Alastair. Thomas was right. It had been hard as hell. Alastair was caught off-guard that Thomas had _noticed_ when no one else had, except maybe Cordelia. 

“We should have treated you better,’’ Thomas said quietly. “ _I_ should have treated you better. I’m sorry.’’

They lapsed into silence again, the only sound being the crackling of the fire.

“There’s nothing to forgive,’’ said Alastair, his voice soft.

Thomas met Alastair’s eyes. The firelight was reflected on Thomas’s deep hazel eyes. 

“I said terrible things at school—’’ Alastair began, but Thomas grabbed his hand, making his heart jump to his throat and making his words lose their way. 

“Don’t, please, Carstairs,’’ said Thomas earnestly. “You are forgiven. Please, let’s speak of it no more.’’ 

Alastair didn’t know what to say. He should thank Thomas, but he couldn’t, so instead he simply said, “Alastair. Call me Alastair.’’

Thomas’s brow furrowed. “But you said—”

“Damn what I said,’’ said Alastair fiercely. “Damn it all.’’ 

A smile played at Thomas’s lips. “Alright, then. Alastair.’’ 

Alastair couldn’t help it. He smiled too. “Very well. Thomas.’’ 

They gazed at each other, faces illuminated in the dying light of the fire. Alastair realized Thomas was still holding his hand. He never wanted him to let go. There was a burning in his chest. A fierce, relentless _longing_ for something he’d previously thought he’d never be able to have. But the impossible had already happened once that night, and Alastair was feeling reckless. He gripped Thomas’s hand and pulled him closer. _This is your chance,_ he thought. _Let go. Push me away. Tell me I’m revolting._

But Thomas did none of those things. Instead, he leaned in and kissed Alastair. 

The kiss ignited something deep inside of Alastair. He made a little noise and wrapped his arms tightly around Thomas’s waist. They kissed again, the heat between their mouths moist and beckoning. Alastair opened his mouth and felt Thomas’s tongue brush his own. Thomas moaned softly. His hand rested on the buttons of Alastair’s shirt. 

Letting go of Thomas, Alastair began furiously working at the top buttons of his own shirt, while Thomas started with the bottom ones. Their hands met in the middle and touched momentarily, before Thomas was pushing the linen shirt off Alastair’s shoulders. Thomas ran his hands down the planes of Alastair’s back, Alastair arcing into his touch. Alastair could scarcely believe that this was happening, but he couldn’t focus on any coherent thought. His list of priorities had narrowed down to getting the clothes off of Thomas Lightwood. He tugged at Thomas’s shirt and the two boys began their frantic unbuttoning once more, although this time the hand placement was reversed. Alastair had never realized until that moment what _a complete bother_ buttons really were. 

Thomas’s shirt dropped to the floor. Alastair immediately had his hands against Thomas’s bare chest, his tongue against his neck. Alastair felt Thomas’s fingers running through his hair, his fingernails gently scratching his scalp. Thomas was murmuring Alastair’s name over and over. Alastair shivered slightly as Thomas ran his fingertips lightly down Alastair’s back. His index finger hooked onto the waistband of his trousers. Alastair paused, waiting. As soon as he felt Thomas tug, he pulled away. 

The color of Thomas’s already flushed face deepened. “I-I’m sorry,’’ he gasped, breathless. “I thought—”

Alastair interrupted him with a kiss. “Not here,’’ he murmured against Thomas’s lips. “Let’s go upstairs.’’

It was Thomas’s turn to pull away. “You want . . .?”

“Yes.’’

Something unreadably passed behind Thomas’s hazel eyes. Alastair felt an uncomfortable flicker of doubt. “Do you not want it, Thomas?” He asked quietly.

“No, no, Alastair, I do,’’ said Thomas quickly. “It just seems so . . .” He trailed off with a shrug. 

_Unattainable._ That was what it seemed. But it wasn’t, Alastair told himself firmly. He took Thomas’s hand and began leading him up the stairs. They didn’t speak; they tread as lightly as possible so they woke no one. Once in his bedroom, Alastair shut the door behind them. There was no lock, but the unspoken agreement between them was that Thomas would leave before the sun rose. They would deal with the clothes they had abandoned in the parlor the next morning. For now though, it was just the two of them. 

Alastair turned away from the door. There was little light in the room, but through the meager stream cast by the streetlamps outside, Alastair could see Thomas staring intently at him. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Thomas’s waist. He felt strong arms embrace him. He inhaled deeply. He was ready. 

Thomas and Alastair kicked off their boots and Alastair lead Thomas to his bed. He lay on the mattress, wearing only his trousers. He grabbed Thomas by the hand and pulled him down on top of him. He watched Thomas’s expression shifting from nervous to frightened. Somehow Alastair knew it was not him Thomas feared. “No one has to know,’’ he whispered. Resolve crossed Thomas’s elegant face. He nodded once, shortly, and leaned down and kissed Alastair’s mouth. 

Alastair gasped and his hands flew to Thomas’s back. Thomas ran his tongue along his jaw and Alastair inhaled sharply, digging his nails into his back. Thomas groaned softly in pleasure. He was heavy on top of Alastair, but Alastair didn’t mind. The weight was security, confirmation that this was all _real._ Alastair opened his mouth for Thomas, but this time he bit back aggressively with kisses of his own. His hands drifted to Thomas’s trousers and he began working at buttons again. His hands fumbled blindly in the dark. Thomas gave an impatient grunt and pushed away Alastair’s hand. Within moments, Thomas had kicked his trousers to the floor. 

Thomas slid his arms under Alastair and gripped him tightly, then flipped them over so Alastair was on top of Thomas. Alastair, with the help of a very eager Thomas Lightwood, had his own trousers lying on the floor in no time. Their bodies were now separated by nothing at all. 

They came crashing together, euphoric and oblivious to the fragility of the world they lived in. It was hot and heavy, muffled cries and staggered breaths; but it was also gentle and passionate, murmured names and solemn promised. Although Thomas and Alastair were perhaps never meant to be, and they both knew it in their deepest of hearts, it was one of the great nights of each their lives. So as long as they both should live, they would remember every detail of their night together, from the passion of the latest hour, to the early morning whispers when they woke the next day nestled together, side by side. 


End file.
